


Oh, The Birds Will Sing In Spring

by greenxaphrin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love Triangles, Passion, Slow Burn, Snippets, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Unrequited Crush, Work In Progress, wicked!willas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenxaphrin/pseuds/greenxaphrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willas Tyrell will happily live his life a thousand times as a cripple if his compensation is in a form of Sansa Stark. Jon Snow, on the other hand, wishes for his half-sister to despise him (and treat him as a bastard that he is) and maybe then, it will be easier for him to let her go. Sandor Clegane believes his childhood prayer, before he stops believing in gods, has finally been answered when the Stark girl smiles at him, and he becomes a boy all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Child of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Un-Beta'd 
> 
> Story is told in snippets or long snapshots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark is only ten years of age when she accompanies Father, Robb, and her half-brother—after so much pleading and begging on her part to remain at Winterfell—to visit the homes and villages in the North, and stay as honored guests in the castles of Father’s bannermen.

Sansa I

 

**i.**

 

Sansa Stark is only ten years of age when she accompanies Father, Robb, and her half-brother—after so much pleading and begging on her part to remain at Winterfell—to visit the homes and villages in the North, and stay as honored guests in the castles of Father’s bannermen.

Arya sends her nasty looks and whines to Father that it isn’t fair how Sansa, who’d rather spends her time sewing and singing, is allowed to go while she stays at home. Mother vehemently disapproves, chiding Arya that she is too young to be far away from home.

“Is it not fitting for the eldest daughter of Winterfell to see the homes of her subjects?” Mother asks Sansa, after attempting to lock herself in her room as a manner of protesting, as she combs her hair with a silver tooth comb.

“But Mother, I’m not good at riding horses as Robb or Jon, and what am I supposed to do while on the road if Jeyne can’t come. I’d rather stay here. Septa Mordane is supposed to teach me how to play the harp.”

Mother only sighs and keeps combing her hair. “You truly are a summer child.” Sansa detects a hint of sadness on her voice and she wonders if Mother, in the darkest hours, wishes for the coolness of the long-winded rivers and warmth of the fertile soil that is Riverrun.

And she wonders if her fate will be the same as Mother’s someday—forced to leave her home and—

Sansa refuses to dwell on it.

**ii.**

 

Her favorite part of her Northern tour is White Harbor. Wyman Manderley greets them with flourish and style that sends her dancing, bare-footed, on the cool marble floor, (if Septa Mordane could see her, she would have scolded her for forgetting her manners), during the feast while Father engages in a private conversation in hushed tones with Lord Manderly. Meanwhile, their direwolves are the center of attention as girls and boys, daring enough to approached them, lavish them with treats.

Oh, how Robb twirls her around and around until she becomes a giggling mess. However, her half-brother, Jon, is stiff and awkward, (as if he isn’t sure if it’s appropriate to dance with her), whereas Robb is carefree and loud, perhaps from the wine that he has been secretly drinking while Father’s attention is occupied elsewhere.

“For the love of gods, Jon.” She huffs when he accidentally steps on her dress for the third time that night.

Jon can only avert his gaze, his cheeks red, from what she can only interpret as shame and through the roaring music, she hears his mumbles of apologies. Sansa’s ill will toward him simmers. “Perhaps, if you practice some more…” she teases Jon and offers him her hand again.

(What a sight it made, Robb once said: Jon stumbling on his feet under the beat of the drums as he is being chided by his little sister).

Sansa can’t help feeling the heaviness of that settles in her heart when they depart the next day.

 

**iii.**

 

Roose Bolton scares her. Something eerily strange about the man that sends shivers in her spine whenever she sees his sly smile that fully doesn’t reach his unflinching eyes. Dreadfort, what an awful name for a keep, she thinks. At least Jon feels that same way when she confides in him about Roose Bolton.

“Shh.. You mustn’t show your disdain openly Lady Sansa.” Jon says, his hand petting Ghost’s fur. “We are guests… and Lord Stark won’t like it if we talked about his bannerman like that.”

“Father doesn’t like him, too.” she points out.

Robb, on the other hand, is away hunting with Grey Wind, Father, and the Flayed Man (a vile nickname in which Sansa secretly calls him).

 

**iv.**

 

It is when they are on the road going home from Karhold (she is still embarrassed for Robb when Rickard Karstark practically shoved Alys to dance with him) that Sansa truly notices the state of things in the North. She hears the distinctive crunch of the snow beneath the horses’ hoofs, and even her rich fur coat or Lady’s warmth can’t stop her from shivering inside her wheelhouse. Through the tiny window of her wheelhouse, she sees a far, distant village with thin trails of smokes rising from the smallfolk’s chimneys.

“We will stop here for the night,” Father tells her when he opens the door of her wheelhouse.

The inn is small and unable to provide for all of Father’s men. The innkeeper, a stout and skinny man with eyebrows the size of small caterpillars, profusely apologizes to Father for the rough state of his inn which Father dismisses the innkeeper’s dismay with a quick flick of his wrist.

“It will do,” says Father as he provides the innkeeper a bag of silver coins. “My men are hungry and tired after a long day’s journey. A warm meal and a cup of ale will suffice.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The innkeeper fumbles with the pouch of coins, deciding whether he should accept or reject it. At the end, he keeps it.

When Sansa is preparing to depart to her room, she notices a girl with short, shaggy hair peering at her behind the innkeeper’s leg. Sansa smiles and beckons her to come closer. But the girl’s brown, muddy eyes are still full of fright as her eyes darted from her to Lady.

Sansa slowly shakes her head— _no, Lady won’t bite_ —and to demonstrate it, she ruffles Lady’s head.

A gasp escapes Sansa’s lips when the girl finally walks to her. Gaunt cheeks, frail limbs, thin bones. If Sansa doesn’t know any better, a wind could have lifted and carried the girl as easily as dried leaves.

That night, she secretly gives her supper to Jeyne, (the girl reminded her of Jeyne Poole).

When morning comes, Sansa lies and says that she isn’t hungry.

 

**v.**

 

The towers of Winterfell loom larger and larger in the horizon. Refusing to stay inside the confining wheelhouse, Sansa is riding in front with her brothers and Father at her side. Grey Wind, Lady, and Ghost are already running toward the gates. After spending five moons away from home, happiness blooms inside her chest like winter roses that often grow on the castle walls.

Father kisses Mother on the lips, regardless of the whoops and shouts of encouragements from his men. Arya has also grown remarkably well, and her head is almost at Sansa’s shoulders. Robb is tackled by Bran and Rickon. Theon greets them with a wide smile.

“How was it? Is Lord Manderley as fat as they say he is? Tell me all about it, Jon! Tell me!” Arya shakes him roughly after he gets off his horse.

“Arya! At least allow Jon the decency to eat or bathe before hounding him of all of your questions,” Sansa snaps at her after noticing the dark shades underneath Jon’s eyes.

She only sticks her tongue at her, but she heeds Sansa’s advice. Jon sends her a small, shy smile— _thank you._

 

**vi.**

 

“They were hungry, Mother. I could see their bones poking out of their skins,” she says, staring at the oval mirror and watching the heavy sag of Mother’s shoulders.

“Winter is coming,” Mother replies the solemn words of their House. “The harvest did not yield enough food to sustain the North for more than two moons. Your father says that not even White Harbor, as rich as they are, does not have enough provisions to feed their smallfolk.”

Sansa remembers the feast moons ago. Lord Manderley had presented them with salmon, muttons, and so on, while the smallfolk starved. Now, she understands the hard look in her Father’s eyes during the feast.

**vii.**

 

She wakes suddenly, sweat beads rolling from her temples and hairs sticking to her skin. Her throat is dry as though she has been screaming. There is a cold wetness between her thighs accompanied with a sickening ache in her lower stomach. Lady is by her side at an instant, whining and nudging her arm with her nose.

Everyone must have heard her because her door, unbarred, slams opened. Father and Mother along with her brothers and sister, and some of the guards stumble in, weapons drawn. Sansa pulls her blanket up to her chin— _I can just die right here._

Dawn creeps and her flowering at two-and-ten years of age becomes the center of gossip in Winterfell.

 

**viii.**

 

“There are many asking for your hand in marriage,” Arya says nonchalantly one day when they are watching Robb and Jon training with Jory on the yard.

“How do you know?” Sansa asks curiously. This is the first time she has heard about this and the word “marriage” twists her stomach.

“I heard Father and Mother arguing about it last night.” Arya’s grey eyes, (sometimes, Sansa becomes envious how Arya looks more Stark and of the North than her), stare at her, seeking any form of reaction.

“Eavesdropping is rude, Arya!” is the only reply Sansa can manage.

She rolls her eyes. “I didn't do it intentionally. I was about to knock on their door to ask Father about hiring a swor—err, a dancing master when I heard.”

“Well? Who are asking?” she nearly shakes Arya out of impatient. Septa Mordane’s words rang inside her head: Ladies should act patient and kind. “Please?” Sansa adds.

Arya has the gall to snort. “Are you that desperate to be married?” Somehow, there is an accusatory tone to her question. _Are you that desperate to leave Winterfell?_ The unsaid meaning lingers in the air.

“Arya! How could you say that!” She throws her hands in the air. _My place is here in Winterfell and the North, no matter the southron songs that you think I am so fond of_ is what she wants to say. Then the revelation hits her like she is hit by one of Rickon’s snowballs. Her travels around the North has truly changed her. Mother’s wrong, she thinks, I am the child of winter—a Stark. (Sometimes, she hates her Tully look)

“I don’t want you to go south,” mutters Arya. “That’s seems to what Mother wants and Father doesn’t like it.”

Before Sansa can reply, she hears Theon’s shouts and the direwolves' haunting howls. The ground threatens to go under her.

“Come quickly! Bran fell!”

**ix.**

 

Mother has not left Bran’s side since his fall. “I have told him a hundred times to stop climbing those walls. He promised!” she wails, tears falling down her cheeks as she clutches Bran’s hand. Every once in a while, Summer leaves Bran to hunt and spends the rest of his time by his side. Father sends ravens all throughout the realm, asking and begging for a solution to Bran’s perpetual sleep.

“Maester Luwin says Bran can’t walk anymore. His legs are too damage,” Robb says bitterly while they are breaking their fast. Suddenly, Sansa doesn’t want to eat anymore. 

Sansa prays to the godswood everyday. Prays and prays and prays will all her heart that Bran will wake up, and everything will go back the way they _were._

Two moons had passed by and Bran’s eyes remained closed.

**x.**

 

One night, Father sends for her. “You are a maiden flowered and…” He looks uncomfortable and fumbles with his hands. He almost look like Jon when he is nervous, much to her amusement.

“It is alright, Father.”

“Your mother is always good with this,” he sighs. The light from the candles illuminates the wrinkles and fine lines on his face. He appears older now, more vulnerable ever since…

Sansa refuses to think about it, but the pain remains.

“You are three-and-ten years of age now and there are suitors vying for your hand…” Father rubs his hands together, and she waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts. “Most are from Northmen, my bannermen’s sons, but there are some from the south. I don’t want you to think that I am…forcing you to marry…” Father trails off, somehow lost in his thoughts.

Sansa knows all about the circumstances surrounding Father and Mother’s marriage. “Who are they, Father?”

He gets up and returns with letters on his hand and reads them aloud. “Greatjon Umber’s son, Smalljon, (she remembers him once when the Umbers came for Rickon’s nameday celebration, and Smalljon had been so loud), Brynden Blackwood (she only knows House of Blackwood of Riverrun, sworn to the Tully’s, through her lessons with Septa Mordane), Cley Cerwyn, (the same sounds familiar)…” Father pauses momentarily, looking at one of many letters with narrowed eyes. “Joffrey Baratheon.”

If Sansa had been standing up, she would have fallen to the ground with shock. “T-the prince?” she chokes and suddenly a traitorous image appears in her mind. A golden crown on her head and the golden-haired prince by her side.

You would be queen, a dark voice whispers.

“Yes!” Sansa shouts, jumping on her feet.

“Sansa, I am not done yet,” says Father but she cannot bring the world to care when she detects disapproval in his voice.

Highborn ladies listen to their elders, Septa Mordane’s words reigned in her joy. She sits down with her hands on her lap. “Please go on, Father.”

She does not bother to listen to the rest of the names when she has already decided.

“…Tyrell..”


	2. One Amongst Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s disappointed when the Starks fail to live up to his high expectations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd
> 
> I imagine Willas to be 7 years older than Sansa, and Loras to be 2 years older than her.

Willas I

 

**i.**

 

Willas Tyrell watches his little brother, Loras, with a hint of amusement pace around his solar. “I damn all ravens to the seven hells! How dare Grandmother do this. And out of all of the Houses in Seven Kingdoms, why engage me to a northern house. They’re barbarians!”

It’s very rare to witness Loras furious; angry, yes but never furious. The one time he did see him furious was when he fought with Renly Baratheon eons ago over the matter of an insignificant whore.

“Oh, little brother. I’m sure the Starks will reject your—or rather—Grandmother’s proposal. So, before all the ravens in the realm are killed off, calm your anger,” he says, picking up his book from the table with the intention of returning to _Asshai’s History of Warlocks and Sorcerers_ before Loras came barging into his solar. “The Starks are anything but barbarians, mind you. They’re the one of the oldest House in the realm.”

Loras grimaces and sits down on the edge of Willas’s bed. He runs his fingers through his hair, “That’s not what I heard. I heard the Starks feed their enemies to their pet wolves which are the size of a full-grown horse!”

“That’s because you listen to court gossips. Besides, direwolves are only found north beyond-the-wall.” Wishing to return to his quiet afternoon, Willas waves his hand. “I’m sure you know where the door is located.”

Loras huffs but he gets up from his bed. “Isn’t it ironic? You’re the one who’s in dire need of a wife yet I’m the one who’s receiving one.”

He bites the inside of his cheeks, refusing to show how Loras’s words greatly injured him at the harsh truth of his statement. _No one wants a cripple_. His fingers grip the edge of the book as a sudden surge of anger flares inside him, and he purses his lips together to prevent from speaking his mind. _Oh, I know of your secret trysts with Renly, little brother. My wit hasn’t slowed like my cursed leg. Best you remember that._

 

**ii.**

 

They’re breaking their fast the next morning when the topic of House Stark is mentioned again. This time, it’s Mother who brings it up. “Whispers from King’s Landing says His Grace is pushing Prince Joffrey into marrying the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark.”

Loras shots Willas a sideway glance. Father fumbles with his fork. Garlan remains nonchalant as though they’re merely discussing the weather and continues his meal. Margaery calmly dabs her mouth with the red cloth, but Willas quickly sees the fear flickering in her eyes. “What does Grandmother says about this?”

“She’s coming from Oldtown and will arrive tonight. We’ll have to act earlier than intended if the crown is ever to be yours, darling,” replies Mother, her hand covering Father’s on the table.

Willas sighs and pushes his plate away, his appetite gone. If there’s one thing he learned from reading the histories of the seven kingdoms is that the higher you reach for power, the harder you fall. (Just look at the Targaeryens, or the Tarbecks and Reynes, he wants to shout at them).

In the event that he will die without an heir—the mere thought quickens his breath—Garlan will take his place as Lord of Highgarden. _At least I can rest in peace knowing that Garlan won’t jeopardize House Tyrell in their game of thrones._

 

**iii.**

 

The next afternoon, Willas is sitting on a bench overlooking at the vast fields of the Reach when Garlan plops tiredly besides him. “I had to escape. They’re talking about the Starks again.”

Willas groans. _Not this again_. It seems to him that he can’t escape those damned Starks and mentally chuckles at the irony that they’re so far up north, he probably won’t ever see even one of them.

“Margaery and Loras along with Grandmother, Mother, and Father are heading to King’s Landing two days from now, before the Starks have the chance to reply,” says Garlan, absentmindedly plucking the petals of a yellow rose he got from a bush. “Loras is upset that Grandmother is sweetening the proposal for the Starks to agree to his engagement. If Sansa Stark says yes to Loras, then Margaery’s betrothal to Prince Joffrey will be easily guaranteed.”

_Sansa._

_Sansa Stark._

Willas inwardly admits that her name has a nice ring to it, almost exotically demure. “They have it all figured it out, then,” he grunts. He nearly pities Sansa Stark for losing the chance at being queen at the expanse of his family’s ambitions.

 

**iv.**

 

A letter from Mother arrives for him after they have departed for King’s Landing three moons ago. Sitting on his chair by the fireplace, he breaks the seal.

_It is nearly done but Loras has vanished. See to it that he is found._

Willas brings his fore-fingers up to his temples, massaging them to chase away his throbbing headache. Then he reaches for Margaery’s letter. Her lavender perfume wafts around his solar when he opens it.

_Welcome the wolves home, dearest brother._

He crumbles both letters and tosses them at the hearth of the fire; the flames consuming the parchments, leaving no trace of its existence.

 

**v.**

 

Garlan helps him prepare Highgarden for the Starks’ impending arrival. The glass vases around the castle are replaced with fresh flowers from the gardens. Lemoncakes (he discovered Loras betrothed’s favorite dessert from Margaery’s whispers) are being baked and the guest rooms are being decorated to suit their northern needs.

_Am I missing something?_

“Is there a raven from Loras yet?” Willas asks Garlan as they oversee the preparation.

“I checked this morning. Not a word.”

Willas grips his cane. If Loras doesn’t come to Highgarden soon, he’ll be tempted to send guards to drag him home from Storm’s End.

“Starks will arrive this afternoon. See that the preparations are met. I’ll be sending him another raven.”

_If the threat of his disinheritance doesn’t bother him, then maybe I need to make a stronger, bolder approach. One that will definitely make him run home._

 

_vi._

 

He’s disappointed when the Starks fail to live up to his high expectations. _Is this the same House who have forced his ever-so-careful family to impulsively act?_

He and Garlan, along with the rest of Highgarden servants, are at the gates when he hears the thundering hoofs of the horses and sees the grey and white direwolf sigils flowing in the horizon. Willas squints his eyes at the two growing dots in front of the horses, running and running toward them with increasing speed.

He hears them before he can see them up close.

“Lady! Nymeria! Stop!”

The two giant dogs immediately heel in front of the horses.

“Garlan, call for the riders!”

The Starks’ horses whine and violently thrash around, kicking their rear legs. He bites back a string of curses of the Starks’ immaturity. It’s common knowledge that horses are easily spook, even by dogs.

He observes carefully as Garlan leads the riders to meet them. Fortunately, the giant dogs are a safe distant from the horses and the riders.

It’s in that warm afternoon sun that he finally notices the long, bright, copper hair blowing in the breeze. Sansa Stark is the one with the red hair, Garlan had whispered to him before they met at the gates. But there’s another, Willas notes. A much deeper tone of red than Sansa’s. Must be her Tully mother, he thinks.

As the northern party comes closer, the more his eyes becomes wider at the sight. Hair like Sansa Stark’s is non-existent in the Reach. “Welcome to Highgarden, Lady Stark. I, first, would like to deeply apologize for Loras’s absence today, due to…unforeseen circumstances but I’m sure that he will be here tomorrow morning, I swear it.” he greets them while the servants curtsied. “I would bow if my leg allows me,” he says dryly.

It’s her mother who speaks and if she’s insulted by Loras’s absence, she doesn’t show it. “It’s an honor receiving us, Lord Tyrell. These are my daughters, Sansa and Arya.”

By gods, she is tall. Tall, lean, and too comely for a “barbarian,” he thinks. though still a child. _Ah, the queen who could have been._ The younger sister is a stark contrast with her steel, grey eyes and brown, mousy hair. _Like two sides of a coin._

Willas swiftly brushes his lips against the back of both of their hands. “Please follow us. I’m sure all of you are famished after a long journey.”

 

**vii.**

 

Willas, in all of his life, has never been more excited to meet the guests’ pets than the honored guests themselves. The direwolves’ size have been greatly exaggerated but he can see that in full moon’s time, they will certainly be bigger than his prized stallion.

After the Starks and their men are settled in their respectable rooms, the feast finally begins.

As honored guests, Lady Stark followed by Lady Arya are seated at his left, while Garlan followed by Lady Sansa are at his right at the dais. (At first, he was worried that the direwolves would cause a havoc during the welcoming feast, but strangely the direwolf by Lady Sansa obediently sat near her feet, watching the dancers with lazy, yellow eyes. The other one, however, was missing). He fights the urge to touch the direwolf, but thinks that it will be seen as an insult without the mistress’s permission.

He specifically asks the singers to include northern songs to make the Starks feel more welcome. However, Lady Stark seems dazed, her eyes staring across the feast. It’s the look that his siblings scold him whenever his mind is elsewhere.

“My condolences, my lady,” he whispers to her. “I hope that he wakes from his long slumber.”

Lady Stark smiles, though it doesn’t reach her Tully blue eyes. “Thank you, my lord.”

And that is that. Willas feels that he may have overdone the festivities and forgets to factor in the Starks’ situation. _Of course, you fool—can’t blame them for their foul mood when one of their blood is laying on his deathbed._

 

**viii.**

 

Loras returns during their morning fast and quickly hides his surprise. “Please forgive me, Lady Stark, Lady Sansa, and…” Loras silently begs him to help him, but Willas refuses. Let him embarrass himself, he muses bitterly.

“Arya,” Lady Sansa’s younger sister huffs, her lips set on a scowl.

“Err…I could I ever forget you, Lady Arya.” Loras replies, trying to smoothen the tension in the air.

“How could you remember me if you’ve never met me before,” Lady Arya retorts and Willas watches, a goblet full of water near his lips, with a wicked glee as his little brother becomes flushed and flustered. 

But before Lady Arya can further turn Loras into a bumbling fool that he is, Lady Sansa—bless her heart—salvages the situation. “Good morning, my lord. It's my pleasure to finally meet you. And this is your home so you have no need to seek our forgiveness. ”

Loras smiles and eloquently bows at Lady Sansa. “You are so kind, my lady. You are even more beautiful in person," he brings her hand to his lips with such flourish that Willas almost roll his eyes.  _Though he's not wrong about her beauty._ If there's one thing that Loras appreciates more than his life, it's for an eye for pretty things. "That is why I should relieve you of my poor state and get ready for our stroll in the garden this afternoon, I hope?”

Willas watches, oh so carefully, as Lady Sansa claps her hands together near her chest, and her lips curved into a courteous smile that doesn't quite reaches her eyes. “I’ll love to, my lord.”

After their meal, Willas insists in showing Lady Sansa around the flower gardens despite of the constant ache in his leg and her shy protests, while Garlan entertains Lady Stark and Lady Arya. “My lord, are you certain? I do not want to take up your precious time—“

“I know my little brother, Lady Sansa. One time, he let Margaery and Garlan wait for hours on end because he couldn’t find the perfect doublet that matched his breeches,” he lightly chuckles as he tells his story about Loras.

The sounds of her laughs like wind chimes tinkling softly in the breeze echoes around the gardens. Somehow, his chest feels lighter than a feather. The sharp ache in his leg sinks to the abyss of his mind. He hides his amusement when she chides her direwolf (he finds her name “Lady” quite interesting) for chewing on the yellow roses. To his surprise, Lady trots back to them and gently nudges his upper leg with her nose.

“Lady likes you!” she giggles, looking at him through her lashes. The pale blue of her eyes reminds him of the blossoming forget-me-nots growing by his windowsill. She unwinds her arm from his free arm (he’s holding the cane with his other hand) and bends down and pets Lady’s head.

“May I?” Willas finally asks, his curiosity winning over his doubts.

“Of course,” she looks up to him with a shy smile.

Lady tilts her head, and he finds her yellow eyes silently regarding him a little unnerving. Her thick grey fur is soft and coarse beneath his palm, and suddenly he’s nine years of age again, before his tourney accident, when he first finds a baby sparrow spreading its wings upon a branch of a cherry tree. He blinks and the feeling evaporates like petals in the wind.

 

**ix.**

 

Willas hears the familiar uneven footsteps coming closer and closer to his bedchamber. The hinges of his door heavily groan as Loras barges in.

 _When will he ever outgrow this tantrums of his?_  “You should learn how to knock,” he says, not looking up from his book. “How was your day with the lovely Lady Sansa?” he adds, knowing it will annoy Loras.

“Don’t change the subject! How, out of all people, can you threaten me with—“ he takes a deep breath before continuing—“Renly!” he hisses and Willas grits his teeth together when Loras snatches his book from his hand and throws it onto the floor.

“I needed you to come home.” Willas whispers, attempting to cool his boiling anger at his little brother’s lack of wit or common sense. “Did you know how insulting it was to lie to them in their face about your absence yesterday? You have a duty to your family, Loras. Best remember that.”

Loras flinches. The distant howls of the Starks’ direwolves penetrates the silence. “I know…” Loras murmurs, picking up and dusting his book before returning it to him with a tight-lipped smile. “Tell me, Willas. Just when did you get interested in _Tales of the North_?”

His attempt of a lame jape only makes Willas narrow his eyes at him. _Who's changing the subject now?_

He runs his hand through his hair and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m just so angry at Grandmother’s schemes and I get angrier thinking how they’re getting everything they wanted. Margaery gets to be queen, Father will certainly be the Hand, Garlan will marry Leonette, and—“ he chokes and brings his hands to his eyes.  
“I just want to be with… Renly.”

_Oh, little brother._

His heart aches at the sight of him, crumbled and defeated on the floor.

 

**x.**

 

If there’s one thing about the Warden of the North, if the accounts are proved to be right, is that he’s an honorable man. Surely, an honorable man such as Eddard Stark won’t let his people suffer and Willas' offer is much generous than what his Grandmother have originally planned.

The quill, dripping with ink, is steady in his hand. He wrestles with himself for a moment. Then, he begins to write.

_Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,_

After a minute Willas pauses, his hand trembling. His eyes scan his words on the white parchment.

_Please consider my proposal._

_Willas Tyrell_  
_Acting Lord of Highgarden_

He quickly folds the parchment and seals the wet wax with the his sigil, before doubt overrides his mind. _No one wants a cripple._ The poisonous voice hisses in his mind, slithering and snaking around his neck until he can barely breathe. _No one wants a cripple._

“Leymon!” he calls out.

A swing of his door and Leymon peers inside, “You called for me, m’lord?”

Willas hands him the sealed parchment and if Leymon notices the torn pieces of paper on his floor, he gives no indication of it and quickly leaves.

He rubs his eyes and curses for the hundredth time at the burning ache of his cursed leg and the demon living in his head. _Grandmother won’t be happy, but damn them to the seven hells if they think I’ll stand by and let Loras leads himself to an early grave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Jon Snow!


	3. Outsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They leave Winter Town with the proclamations of “Stark! Stark! Stark!” behind them. Jon doesn’t acknowledge the painful twinge of a knife plunging into his chest at the absence of Snow within the loud cries of Starks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd
> 
> This is my take of Bran after his fall.

Jon Snow I

 

**i.**

 

Maester Luwin receives a raven from Lady Stark informing them that they’re a day’s ride from Winterfell, after a month of traveling. Their stay in Highgarden cut too short after the news of Bran’s wake.

Jon Snow quietly opens the door. “Bran, I have your supper.”

Bran’s eyes stares blankly at him for a second.

“Bran?” He sets the silver tray with Bran’s soup and bread on the table. His head slightly twitches which sets Jon to run to his side.

“J-jon, call for Father. They’re in danger,” he gasps and grabs Jon’s sleeve with such force that some of the seams have snapped, his knuckles turning translucent white.

He never seen Bran so distress unless…

 

**ii.**

 

Lord Father, Robb, and Theon are preparing their horses in front of the gates. Flakes of snow glaze the ground and some flakes are melting upon their jerkins; a flash of silver glints underneath their clothes. Jon, with Bran on his back, watches them (a part of him is envious that he has to stay in Winterfell). “I hope you are wrong,” he says, his chest heavy with worry.

“Me too,” replies Bran. “Me too.”

 

**iii.**

 

He doesn’t know how to comfort her after finding her in the godswood, her body wrecking with restrained sobs. “Lady…Sansa?” he calls out softly as to not startle her. _What should I do?_ He’s not good with handling girls like Robb or Theon, much less with crying girls.

Lady Sansa slightly turns her head, her fiery red hair catching moonlight in the darkness of the godswood. His chest gives a twist when he sees her puffy eyes, exhausted from her tears. His body immediately reacts out of instinct. He unclasps his grey-fur cloak and within two long strives, he bends down and gently drapes his cloak around her shaking shoulders.

“Jon,” she hiccups, “I dreamt of Lady, again. It…It was my fault! I shouldn’t have—”

She wraps her dainty arms around his neck and without much thought, he gathers her against his chest. “I’m so sorry for what happened. But Lady wouldn’t want you blaming yourself like this,” he whispers into the crook of her neck as he softly rocks her back and forth. “Shh…it’s going to be alright.” They stay in that position for while, just wrapped around each other as he murmurs words of comfort to her ears. The engraved faces of the weirwoods silently watch them, but he can't bring himself to care.

When her breathing has slowed and her tears have dried, he, then, carries her back to her room in the cover of darkness. After laying her down onto her featherbed, he prepares to quickly leave when he feels a light tug on his sleeve. He looks down at her, surprised. Her eyes are closed but her lips curve into a soft smile. “Thank you, Jon.”

 

**iv.**

 

The bandits composed of smallfolks are sent to the Wall as an act of mercy from his Lord Father. “Father should have killed them all,” Robb spits out, “for what they did to Lady.”

“They only did that because they were hungry and desperate.” Jon points out, but he can’t help agreeing with him. His wooden sword clashes with Robb’s once more.

“You weren’t there,” Robb accuses him. He parries and sidesteps Jon’s attack. “If it weren’t for Bran’s…” Robb doesn’t have the chance to finish his sentence when Jon lunges at him with an unspoken vigor.

Robb meets every swings of Jon's sword, slightly pushing him back. Jon tries to break Robb's defense but his hand is slippery around the wooden handle. Although, it’s not his hand that betrays him but rather his eyes. She’s watching him, not at Robb, but at him. As far as he’s ever concerned, she never pays attention to him with such intensity during practice.

Jon doesn’t see it coming and at an instant, there’s a sharp pain at the back of his skull. The dull tip of Robb’s sword stares back at him. “I win, again.” Robb chuckles, offering his hand to him.

“That was absolutely pathetic, Jon!” Jory’s yells ring around the courtyard. “I taught you better than that!"

He rubs his head sheepishly at Jory’s earful scoldings. By the time he scans the small crowd again, he berates himself at the strange tightness in his chest when he sees her walking away; the bottom of her grey-fur cloak dragging on the ground.

 

**v.**

 

Arya finds him in one of the castle’s hallways. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he asks, affectionally ruffling her brown hair. She swats his hand away and through the low light of the flickering candles, he notices her deep scowl. “What’s the matter?” He lays his hands on her shoulders and bends down in order to see her face clearly.

“Stupid Sansa and stupid Robb and stupid Father.” she sniffs, her grey eyes much like his own are glittering with unshed tears.

“What did they do now?” His eyebrows furrow.

“Of course, you’ll always be the last one to know.” Arya mutters harshly.

“Tell me.” _What about Robb and Lord Father? What about Lady Sansa?_ He wants to shake her if that makes her tell him any quicker.

She sniffs. Her face scrunches up like she does when Theon had once dared her to suck on a lemon. “I overheard Father talking about heading south, again. To King’s Landing so that Robb can see his stupid betrothed,” she pauses, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palms. “I’m to stay here.”

Jon pulls her for a hug and puts his chin atop of her head. “They’ll be back.”

Arya shakes her head against his chest. “You don’t understand!” He lets her beat his chest with her little fists. “Robb will have a southern wife on tow when he comes back. And I won’t ever see Sansa again,” she stops, and pulls away from him. “I don’t want things to change.” She rubs her eyes with her arm.

He chooses his words carefully. “There’s one thing that will never change, Arya. They’ll always love you, no matter what,” he ruffles her hair once more. “Now, quit your crying. What will people say if they think you have gone soft?”

He’s unprepared when she tackles him to the ground. “Thank you, Jon! That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Try as he might, he can’t shove down the nagging pain rising in his chest triggered from Arya’s words. _I won’t ever see Sansa again._

 

**vi.**

 

Jon wakes to the loud bells ringing all throughout Winterfell. _Did something happened?_ Still groggy from sleep, he pushes himself up and notices Ghost’s absence. Wearing a fresh tunic and yesterday’s breeches, he makes his way toward the courtyard. He doesn’t feel neither the biting wind nor the fresh fallen snow seeping through his shoes when he finally notices the long convoy of carts near the gates. The vivid green banners imprinted with roses flutter all around him.

Lord Father appears alongside Lady Stark and baby Rickon. “I didn’t expect them to arrive so soon,” he states but Jon doesn’t know if he’s speaking to him or to Lady Stark so he remains silent.

Lady Stark gathers baby Rickon into her arms and regards Jon with a cool, narrowed gaze before going back inside.

A sigh escapes from his lips and it appears as a puff of white steam. _I can talk freely now._ “What are those for?”

“It’s food from the Reach as per the generous agreement with the Tyrells for Sansa’s hand.” Lord Father turns to him, his eyes sad. “You understand, don’t you Jon? What I had to do to prevent my people from starving.”

Everything clicks at that moment. The reason why his sister (half-sister, a part of his mind corrected) had locked herself in her room for nearly a week, why Arya was muttering about King Robert and Prince Joffrey, why Lady Stark was so displeased than usual, why Robb’s betrothal to Princess Myrcella came out of nowhere, why Lady Sansa appeared sorrowful when they went south…

_My sweet sister would have made a great queen…_

 

**vii.**

 

“Move out of the way, bastard.” Theon sneers at him as if he’s dog shit on the sole of his shoes.

He bites his tongue and let Theon through. One of this days, I’ll string you up by your feet and let the crows feed on you, Jon thinks darkly. He saddles up his black horse and rides to meet the rest of the people outside the gates.

Once they arrive at Winter Town, Jon distributes the dried cattle meat amongst the smallfolk (Robb’s in charge of the fresh fruits, Father with the grains, and others with the rest) in the good name of the future union of House Stark and House Tyrell. (He remembered Robb saying how Lord Father’s bannermen had protested about his and Lady Sansa's southern marriages).

They leave Winter Town with the proclamations of “Stark! Stark! Stark!” behind them. Jon doesn’t acknowledge the painful twinge of a knife plunging into his chest at the absence of Snow within the loud cries of Starks.

 

**viii.**

 

Robb corners him one afternoon. “Is it true? Mother told me you’re joining the Night’s Watch at your next nameday.”

Jon masks his surprise. This is the first time he hears of it. _I can take a hint._ He looks down at his rugged palms. “Why not?” He looks up and stares at his blue eyes, so different from his own. “Your Uncle Benjen is a ranger for the Night’s Watch,” he tries to justifies his response and an image of him shivering alone at the Wall pops inside his mind. _I have no place here,_ he desperately wants to tell Robb, _you’ll be Lord of Winterfell, Lady Sansa will be some southron lord’s wife, who knows what Bran will be, Arya will eventually get married, and baby Rickon…_

Robb regards him silently, seeking for any falsehood at his reply. His Tully eyes softens and pats his back. “The Night’s Watch will be lucky to have you, brother.”

 

**ix.**

 

Jon dreads his imminent nameday. His solemn reflection stares back at him, while his legs are submerged halfway into the godswood’s hot spring. Even in the presence of the usual peaceful godswood or Ghost’s company can’t calm the torment inside him.

“Oh.”

He hasn’t heard her approaching. Whipping his whole body around, he chases her and clumsily tugs at her cloak. “Don’t go. I’ll be the one going,” he says clumsily, tumbling over his words as he drops his hand from her cloak.

“Oh, Jon.” She sighs prettily. Her palm is warm against his cheek and his traitorous body leans to her touch. “I just thought you wanted to be alone.”

“That’s the last thing I want,” the words flow like water out of his mouth before he can stop them. The crisp wind rustles the weirwoods’ leaves and Jon clenches his hand to prevent it from reaching and taking out the red leaf from her hair. She leads him back to the hot spring and sits besides him, so close that their elbows are almost touching.

Ghost rests his head on her lap and she laughs; the peals of her laughter having a calming effect on the storm brewing inside him. “You can come to King’s Landing with us.” she murmurs so softly, he strains his ears to hear her.

The meaning behind her statement hangs heavily between them. _You don’t have to take the Black._

He watches the ripples on the water caused by both of their feet. “I’ve already decided.”  
The lie comes out easily as difficult it is for him to admit the truth.

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she absentmindedly pets Ghost and he knows she misses Lady.

That same night, he sends Ghost to her bedchamber. That same night, he dreams of her arms around him whispering to his ear that it’ll be okay.

 

**x.**

 

Summer licks him awake in the middle of the night before his nameday. He whines, looking at him and looking back to his door. _He wants me to follow him._ Summer, predictably, leads him to Bran’s bedchamber.

Bran, halfway covered in fur blankets, pats the bed for Jon to sit. “You’re making a mistake,” he flatly says.

Jon quirks his eyebrow. “And pray tell what it is,” he lightly japes.

“Go south. The Wall can wait for just a little bit longer,” Bran replies, staring at him with his wise blue eyes that’s much like Robb’s yet somehow different. Sometimes, he forgets how old Bran is when he’s so sure of himself.

“I have a strong feeling something bad is going to happen,” Bran once said. (Jon doesn’t doubt him anymore after that particular incident).

After his unfortunate fall, Jon felt Bran had returned a stranger. The remains of Bran he once knew, his cheerful and rebellious younger brother, was gone along with his ability to walk. _All he used to talk about is joining the Kingsguard and dreams of the tales of Aemon the Dragonknight, but now..._

“Why?”

“Because they’ll need you.” Bran’s words are sharp to the point where Jon knows nothing will come of it if he argues.

“They won’t let me come with them,” he points out and his conversation with his Lord Father replays in his mind. _The Night’s Watch is an honorable order, Jon. You’ll be safe there._

Bran’s eyes stares at him, unblinking and determined. “I have my ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note of the inconsistency of how Jon calls her sister to half-sister to Lady Sansa to a simple "she" in some of his scenes. It'll be a big deal later on.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	4. Thousand Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sticks out her tongue and the crisp yet salty taste of the snowflakes bring tears to her eyes. Somehow, she feels that Winterfell, in its own way, is also saying its farewell to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. RL and college life are pretty much taking up all of my time.

Sansa II

 

**i.**

 

Sansa knows deep in her bones that her betrothal to Loras Tyrell is somehow a mummer’s farce. But can she really summon it in her heart to feel bitterness toward Father when she witnesses the smallfolk’s delight of the rich food coming from the Reach? Can she deny her people warm meals and the warmth in their bellies when she, in fact, have never gone through the same hardships as they have?

“We’ve already distributed the food. And more food will come as long as we honor their agreement,” Father’s voice echoes in her ears.

 _Because of Father’s long hesitation of sending a raven to the King, Prince Joffrey retracted his offer for my hand._ The vile taste of “what could have been” leaves her restless and agitated. _Now, I’m to marry a cripp—_

She bites her tongue preventing her from finishing her thought. _Your brother is a cripple, you ungrateful wench…_ the little wicked voice shrieks at her. Shaking her head, she brings her hands to her head. Guilt and shame spreads through her body like poison coursing in her veins. But her conversation with Arya plagues her endlessly.

“I thought he likes me,” she says, fingering the edge of Lord Willas’ letter. “He was so nice to me.”

Arya clucks her tongue and snatches the letter from her grip. “Surely you’re not blinded by his pretty face? He’s dumb as rocks if he doesn’t want you.”

Willas’ letter reaches her along with the prints for Bran’s chair, fashioned after Martell’s own chair. You’ll be marrying a cripple, the dark voice hisses. A cripple who can’t dance with you at your own wedding.

Just before heading to the glass garden, she had snapped at Jon when all he did was ask where Robb was. _I don’t know! I’m not his keeper!_ His contorted expression had said it all. _Poor Jon, I’ll make it up to him._

She tucks her knees to her chest and stares at the winter roses unfurling its frosty petals toward the sullen sky. In the quietness of the glass garden, she lets her loathing thoughts consume her.

She’s falling and falling into a chasm full of darkness only to be pulled back from a wet sensation on her cheek. Ghost’s red eyes blink at her and nudges his nose on her neck. “Now, who told you I was here?” she teases, tangling her fingers into the softness of Ghost’s snowy fur. She swiftly bumps his wet nose with hers. “Tell Jon, thank you.”

His red eyes only blinks, but Sansa knows he understands.

 

**ii.**

 

It’s Robb whom she decides to confide to when the sun is barely up. The sound of her knuckles hitting the wood echoes in the empty hallway. She waits for a minute and the door creaks open. He narrows his eyes at the candle on her hand and back to her face; the familiarity dawning on his expression.

“Come in, Sansa.”

He listens to her, concern clearly presents on his features. Sometimes, it’s Robb whom she feels understand her the most. He understands her doubts, insecurities, and uncertainties that are plaguing her mind because out of all of them, he bears the heaviest weight of duty. She looks at him adoringly, and she can’t help feeling immensely proud of how her older brother turns out to be. He’s to become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North someday. In return, she empathizes his personal dilemma of living up to the high expectations set by their father.

In short, Robb to her is like Jon to Arya.

“How do you feel about a princess for a wife?” she japes, after unloading all of her worries to him.

Robb grimaces, scrunching his nose in contempt. “I just hope Father changes his mind. The North is no place for a little dainty princess, especially when Winter is coming.”

She gasps and brought her hand to her mouth. “You can’t speak about a princess like that!” She chortles and she feels lighter, more elated, than she have been for weeks.

 

**iii.**

 

She hides her embroidered handkerchief inside her sleeve when she encounters Jon at the armory after their morning fast. Hiding from his view, she observes him studying a particular sword in his hand that queerly reminds her of a giant needle.

“What’s a lady doing in here?”

Her hand surges to her mouth and she twists her body around. She’s greeted by Theon’s cocky smile. She lightly smacks him on his arm. “You startled me!”

His smile only widens and she has half the mind to wipe it out of his handsome face. They must have been loud when Jon appears besides her, a frown etched upon his features. “Is the Greyjoy bothering you, Lady Sansa?” His hand hovering on the hilt of the sword.

Theon glowers, the easy-going expression gone. “For your information Snow, I was having a pleasant conversation with Sansa.” His brown eyes flickers to his bow hanging on the wall.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon growls, his shoulders tenses and his frown deepens.

With the tension mounting in the air, she reacts fast. _What is this? A cock fight?_ She places her hands on Theon’s shoulder, blocking his view of Jon, and leans to whisper near his ear. “Do play nice, Theon.” She makes sure to manipulate her voice to sound menacing like Robb’s when he had once scolded Grey Wind for sneaking into the scullery.

It seems to have an effect to make Theon grunt and walk away.

“Will you two ever get along?” she turns toward Jon with a raised eyebrow.

Jon stares at his shoes for a second and looks up. The lines between his eyebrows are still there along with the hard turn of his mouth. She has never closely seen Jon so upset before. “Please excuse me, my lady.”

She watches, helpless, as he quickly pivots his heels and walks away. The handkerchief inside her sleeve lays forgotten.

 

**iv.**

 

A cry from Rickon has her running to his bedside in seconds. His head twists back and forth; his lips pulls back, in a form of snarl, baring the whiteness of his teeth. “Wake up, Rickon!” she cries, placing both of her hands on the sides of his cheeks.

His eyes fly open, and he clutches her arm, his fingernails leaving tiny crescent marks on her skin. “Don’t leave!” he gasps, his body trembling.

She wraps her arms around his body and caresses his auburn locks. “It’s only a nightmare, Rickon. It’s not real,” she soothes him, brushing his auburn hair, sticky from sweat, out of his forehead.

He looks unconvinced. “You were there and Robb and Father. The lions were chasing you. One of them ate Robb!” he wails, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

 _Lions?_   “Now, now Rickon. Wolves are much fiercer than lions,” she replies, kissing his cheek.

He sniffs, pulling back and looking at her strangely. “Not if lions have thorns for furs.”

 _Thorns for furs? What has Old Nan been telling you?_   “That’s nonsense, Rickon. But will you go back to sleep if I sing to you?”

That catches his attention. The wild and feral look in his eyes vanishes and he eagerly nods.

 

**v.**

 

The servants are loading her items on the carts. She watches unwillingly as her room slowly becomes bare to the point where she feels like a stranger standing by her own vanity table. She wills herself not to cry and instead, turns away and flees to the only place she knows.

The bottom of her dress drags on the muddy ground and Septa Mordane’s words ring inside her head: Ladies should always be presentable.

She places a palm against the rough bark of a weirwood tree. Walking through the godswood, she finds Arya huddling with Nymeria at the base of another weirwood. A familiar sword lays besides her.

“Arya?” she calls out.

Arya’s head whips out and she folds her arms in front of her chest. There’s a stubborn look on her face. _Arya Underfoot, Jeyne and I used to call her._ “Go away,” she snaps, turning her face away from Sansa’s.

Sansa only comes closer. _My little sister. It’s true we’ve never been close but perhaps…_ “I am going away…soon,” she replies, bending down and sitting herself besides Arya. Silence settles between except for the quiet rustles of the weirwood leaves. “Did Jon give you that?”

“Why? Are you telling Mother?” she snarks, grabbing the sword and hiding it behind her body.

 _Am I so terrible?_   “Of course not. It’s nice of him to give you that.”

Arya turns her head and looks at her earnestly. “You truly think so?” The sharp edge in her voice simmers. “You swear it?”

“Yes, I do.”

Her whole demeanor changes like ice melting upon the ground. Another silences settles between them but Sansa doesn’t mind. It’s comfortable, she thinks, just sitting here without arguing with her.

Her voice is so soft that Sansa turns and looks at her. Arya’s chin is settled on her knees, her hand on Nymeria’s head. “You’ll come back, right?” It’s merely a whisper but Sansa hears it all the same.

 _My little sister._ “I will come back.” _And when I do, you won’t be little anymore._

 

**vi.**

 

Mother wraps her arms around Robb but only regards Jon with a firm nod. Sometimes, Sansa wishes for her Mother to treat Jon as though he’s part of the family, not some ward like Theon. You would do the same thing if your lord husband brings home a bastard, a darker part of her whispers.

Mother presses the silver comb into her palm. “Once they built the special saddle for Bran, we will come. I will not miss your wedding,” she smiles a sad smile.

_There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Who will be the Stark if all of you will come south?_

Snowflakes are melting on Mother’s red hair when Sansa says her goodbye. Father kisses Mother on the mouth and Arya on the cheek. He hugs both Bran and Rickon though Rickon keeps shaking his head and continues mumbling about the lions with thorns for fur.

Sansa sticks out her tongue and the crisp yet salty taste of the snowflakes brings tears to her eyes. Somehow, she feels that Winterfell, in its own way, is also saying its farewell to them.

 

**vii.**

 

They stop by Riverrun to gather more supplies for the road. Riverrun is a fuzzy memory to her, but she remembers the feel of Mother’s gentle hand as she leads her to watch the trouts jumping out of the river.

“Starks are always welcome in my home,” her grandfather coughs, and her Uncle Edmure rushes to him with a handkerchief in his hand. A glimpse of crimson stained on the white fabric grips Sansa’s heart.

Her grandfather, though weakened by age, hasn’t lose his memories to the cruel hands of time. But his body is weighed down with fatigue, his once beautiful red-brown hair are winter-white, and his is skin faded like creased vellum. Sitting by his bedside and taking his bony, fragile hand into hers, she tells him mostly about Mother and the state of the North. Even though his eyes are closed, she knows he’s listening closely.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen Cat. You look so much like her, my dear,” he murmurs sleepily, the milk of poppy taking effect. “Ah, my precious Cat…”

When she steps out of her grandfather’s bedchamber, her ears pick up the distant yells of Uncle Edmure and the ushered whispers of Father. “…a Snow in Riverrun? I don’t know how I should react to your request, my lord.”

A budding curiosity takes root as Sansa creeps closer to the Great Hall. “Just for a few days, Edmure. Please, I won’t ask you of this if it’s not serious.” Father’s pleading voice surprises her and it’s all for Jon, her half-bastard brother. Guilt immediately swells in her chest for her unfiltered thoughts.

“Forgive me, my lord but your request is too much. You’re always welcome here, yes, but a Snow, especially your bastard son, cannot. Think of my sister’s honor, my lord.”

 _Is Jon not coming to King’s Landing with us?_ Their growing footsteps grow louder and louder which prompts Sansa to run to the opposite hallway. She makes a sharp turn and collides with something hard and soft at the same time. Warm familiar hands settles on her shoulders, steadying her. Jon’s questioning eyes meet hers, but she averts her eyes to the ground. _…especially your bastard son cannot… your bastard son… bastard…_

“Lady Sansa? Are you alright?” His large, weathered hands lightly pushes her back and the realization dawns on her when she notices his eyes rapidly probing her body for…something. _He’s searching to see if I’m injured_.

 _Oh, poor Jon._ Something akin to pity flowers in her chest. “I’m quite alright, Jon—“ Before she can continue, Father and Uncle Edmure’s footsteps are coming closer and closer to their direction.

All she thinks about is sparing Jon, her brother, the pain when she grabs his wrist and leads him to the door, and out toward the edge of the river. “Do you want to see the trouts?”

 

**viii.**

 

Robb sits beside her on the log. “You can’t stay mad at Father forever. I’m upset, too,” he sighs while adjusting his sword into his lap.

She knows she’s pouting which isn’t what lady should do, but she can’t help herself. “Father should have let Jon come to King’s Landing with us instead of leaving him in that haunted ruined,” she snaps. _Even Father treats him like a bast— No, don’t think of that word._ “Jon is his son, too. He’s our brother yet…” she trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence. _Yet what exactly?_

“He was supposed to take the Black, you know. But Bran convinces Father otherwise despite of Mother’s wishes,” he says quietly. “I’ve asked Father and Bran about it, but they won’t tell me a damn thing.”

She deeply inhales in the damp scent of after-rain mingling with smell of roasting meat over the fire and sighs once more. Grey Wind trots to them, a dead rabbit caught between his jaws. She wishes it is Ghost or better yet, Lady, who’s with her. Perhaps then, her troubling thoughts will go away.

 

**ix.**

 

 _So this is the girl who stole my crown._ Sansa’s first thought catches her off guard when she is introduced to Margaery Tyrell, Prince Joffrey’s intended. They are not yet formally betrothed… the now-familiar sly voice whispers in her ear.

But Sansa cannot deny that Margaery is beautiful with her chestnut curls effortlessly bouncing on her back along with the curves of her hip. A child bearing hips, Sansa notices too well. Prince Joffrey is everything she imagines: golden, bright, and handsome. She tries to push the envy that’s growing like weeds in her heart when she finally sees them together, hand in hand, like a King with his Queen. _That should have been me! Me!_

The smile on Sansa’s face falters slightly and she can feel Father’s apologetic gaze. _It’s your fault. If you have send the raven the first morning after I said yes to the offer—_

“I hope Loras has been good to you,” Margaery whispers when they are walking together around the Red Keep, but they are not alone. The soft echo of heavy boots thudding against the ground follows them closely behind. Sansa have never seen a man so huge and the burns on his face…

 _Loras?_ That snaps Sansa’s attention from the gigantic man behind them to Margaery. “Yes, Lady Margaery. Lord Loras has been terrific but it’s not him whom I’m marrying,” she replies, turning her head to gauge Margaery’s reaction.

There’s a slight raise of her brown eyebrow, but the smile on Margaery’s face never flickers. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.”

A small part of Sansa rejoices for her oblivious. “Lord Willas asks for my hand in place of Lord Loras.”

Margaery claps her hand together. “Oh, that’s even better! I’m certain you are going to be a wonderful Lady of Highgarden.”

Sansa hears Lady Margaery’s meaning loud and clear like raindrops pattering against her window. _I’ll still be queen, not you. Not you._

 

**x.**

 

The godswood isn’t as impressive as the godswood in Winterfell. She misses the guarded faces of the weirwood trees and the gurgles of the hot spring where she once found Jon so vulnerable. The thought of Jon, all alone in Harrenhall, makes her breath catch in her throat and her heart tighten in her chest.

 _Oh, Jon_.

Her knees settle on the wet ground, and she clasp her hands together to pray. Sansa prays for the obvious: health, wealth, and safety— health for Bran, wealth for the North, and safety for Jon.

Suddenly, a hand is clasp over her mouth, startling her. “You move, you die,” a sly voice whispers near her ear. _Please, please, please, please…_ “What’s a lady doing all by herself in this witching hour. See, they gave me permission to do anything that pleases me as long as I get the job done.” The cold steel presses against her neck.

Sansa, frozen in fear, feels his other hand trailing on her back; the laces of her dress being pulled one after the other. “The things I’m going to do to you.”

In the midst of her terror, Jon’s melancholy face appears inside her mind. _I haven’t even apologize to him._ Then Jon morphs into Arya and Bran. _My sweet siblings…_ Images of Mother and Father and Winterfell flashes before her eyes like lightning blazing in the sky of Riverrun. She gasps when the bitter air hit her body. Her torn dress lays on the ground. “You dare scream and I will promise that your death will be slow and painful.”

“Pl-please, sir. I’ll give you a-anything you want,” Sansa pleads, trying to push back her cries.

“I want your tight cunt. How about that?” he cackles as he rips open her nightgown that’s covering her smallclothes. He pushes her harshly on the ground.

“Please, sir. Please!”

Rising the back of his hand, he slaps her hard. “Now you be quiet, and this can actually feels good.”

Whimpering from the sting, Sansa shuts her eyes. _Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Stranger. Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior—_

Sansa repeats the names of the Seven as she waits for the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ferocious Sandor is up next!


	5. The Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gaping ache in his chest cannot be dulled by liquor nor the hands of time; it’s something that he will take to his grave as he sees his little bird’s carriage grows and grows into nothing but a speck of dust in the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd
> 
> I'm sorry for the long wait!

**Sandor I**

 

**i.**

 

All Sandor wants to do is find a quiet spot to drink his wine—wine that he snatches from the scullery. His armor clinks and clanks as he stumbles, his vision blurry, but instead of stopping, he raises the wineskin and take another huge gulp.

He welcomes the sour taste of it traveling down his throat and low to his belly. A voice inside his head, perhaps the green boy still buried underneath his self-loathing and hatred, whispers.

Suddenly, he throws the empty bottle. It shatters, breaking into pieces like everything in his life. However fogged and disoriented his mind, he recognizes the familiar surroundings of the godswood. He chuckles bitterly at the irony of it. He worships no gods yet here he is, on his knees no less.

 

**ii.**

 

He doesn’t know how it happens.

One instance he thinks of staggering back to his cot and sleep, the next his blood is roaring and and his sword is plunged deep into a man’s chest. It’s a blur. He blinks for a long second, registering in his godforsaken mind that he just saves a girl. Not just any girl, but the bloody daughter of the Warden of the North.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. In one slow swipe, he pulls back his sword from the man’s body and sheathe it by his hip.

Torn and blood-stained, her flimsy nightdress barely covers her body. Sandor still doesn’t know what possess him to do it, but he unclasps his kingsguard’s cloak and with an unlikely gentleness, he drapes it over her shoulder.

He’s aware of her eyes carefully following his actions which unsettles him slightly. His scars burn brighter than ever before.

“Th-thank you, kind sire,” she whispers, clutching his cloak with her lithe hands.

Sandor pushes back at the urge of to retort when he notices the way she flinches at his scars. “I’m no sire. Just call me the hound,” he throws back his head and laughs. Yes, that’s what he is: the hound. Just a hound loyally following his Lannister masters. A part of him wants to mock her but another stranger part of him that wants her to like him wins the battle.

The parted clouds reveal the full moon and Sandor’s eyes are fixated on her.

She looks like a bird; her snowy wings taking flight in the cold, dreary air.

 

**iii.**

 

By the crack of dawn, the assassination attempt on the life of the Warden of the North’s eldest daughter is the talk of whole Westeros. So is his name on everyone’s lips from the kitchen wench to the bloody Prince Joffrey.

“You must be the feared Hound,” the whore smiles, but he can see the ever slight flinch of her eyes when she finally sees his burnt face. “I heard that you saved a damsel in distress last night—the eldest daughter of the honorable Stark.”

Sandor tosses the gold coin on the table. “Shut up! Get on your knees and face the wall,” he barks, trying to get a good fuck before Prince Joffrey calls for him again.

 

**iv.**

 

He’s assigned as the girl’s personal guard, insisted by Prince fucking Joffrey. Sandor is already being hassled enough as it is and guarding a defenseless bird only gives him unnecessary burden. So, there he is standing quietly like a shadow in the corner of the girl’s room, watching her interact with her maids.

He can tell that she’s tense by the slight tremor in her voice and the shake in her hands. Is it because of his presence? Does his presence scares her so much?

Involuntarily, his hand curls into a fist.

Sandor doesn’t know why—why the girl pulls such an overwhelming reaction from him: the urge, desire, and absolute need to protect her… yet at the same time, the compulsion of shaking her and telling her that the world is cruel and unjust. 

 

**v.**

 

She confides to him.

At first, Sandor thinks she’s chirping to herself as she strolls around the garden—him following closely behind. His hand never straying away from his sword.

“I’m afraid,” she whispers suddenly as she stops momentarily in front of a bed of crimson flowers.

Sandor remains quiet.

“I have never been the courageous one. That’s always been Arya.”

He desperately wants to tell her not to compare herself with her little wolf sister, but somehow, his mouth remains shut. His tongue dry. Even though she’s made of ivory and porcelain bones, it doesn’t make her easily breakable.

She’s at hair’s breadth away from him. So close that he can reach her bare back with his fingertips. But Sandor doesn’t dare to obey the strong urge of his body. Instead, he listens to her silently like a hound guarding his mistress.

 

**vi.**

 

It’s his only day off from working for the Lannister when he encounters Lady Sansa’s she-wolf sister in Flea Bottom. He had heard snippets here and there that the she-wolf refused to be left in Winterfell so she joined a pack of musicians en route to King's Landing. He almost doesn’t recognize her by the way she looks: short, mangled brown hair and filthy peasant clothes. It’s her seemingly permanent scowl and her Stark eyes that confirms Sandor’s suspicion.

“Let go of me!” the she-wolf pounds his back with her fists. “Wait till’ my Father hears about this!”

“Oh yes, then you’ll have to explain to your father what on hell’s name you’re doing in Flea Bottom dressed in commoner’s clothes,” Sandor retorts back.

She becomes silent all of the sudden. She reveals something that makes Sandor’s blood boil. “If you want to protect my sister, you’ll let me go this instant.”

Sandor drops Arya into the ground like a sack of potatoes. “And this concerns your sister how exactly?” he grits his teeth from the unexpected sudden bloodlust that overcomes him. He holds her shoulders tightly to prevent her from fleeing.

Her unflinching grey Stark eyes stare back at him. “I know who sent the assassin.”

 

**vii.**

 

“Dog, come over here!” Prince Joffrey’s voice rings in the empty hallway.

Sandor opens the door. “Your Grace?”

The two whores that Prince Joffrey had ordered are covered in blood. Sitting on the bed is none other the Lannister spawn holding a crossbow. “Get them out of my sight before I do something I won’t regret!”

Sandor yanks them by their hair and drags them out of the room. “Shut your trap!” he hisses and is preparing to shut the door when Prince Joffrey calls him back.

“How do you feel about Sansa? She’s different from what I pictured women living in that barren land that they call home.”

Sandor knows that tone. He knows that tone too bloody well.

“Just an ordinary girl,” he replies, perhaps, too quickly. “Nothing in that tiny brain of hers, Your Grace.”

_Lie. Lie. Lie!_

An image of defenseless Lady Sansa being Joffrey’s plaything nearly paralyzes him. Her face cover in bruises. All those images flash and burn before him. Instinctively, his hand goes to his sword as his mind battles whether to pierce the royal bastard once and for all.

“I’m thinking of making her my concubine.”

_Breathe. In and out. Breathe._

“Like the honorable Ned Stark will agree to let his eldest daughter be a whore,” Sandor spits out. "...Your Grace."

The bastard only opens his mouth and cackles. "Soon enough, I'll be the king and not even Ned Stark can stop me from doing whatever I like!"

 

**viii.**

 

The dwarf lazily lays on the bed and looks at Sandor with his two misshapen eyes. A monstrosity sitting across another monstrosity. The air is heady with the tint of after sex inside the brothel.

“I see. If you bring me evidences to support your claim, I can do something about it.”

 

**ix.**

 

She touches his cheek, his scars, his regrets. Sandor closes his eyes, embracing the sparks of warmth that she provides him. “I’ve always wanted to know,” she murmur, tracing his scar with her fingertip.

“My asshole of a brother,” he grunts, sparing her the gruesome details of his childhood.

“Oh, Clegane…”

Her voice holds so much ache—just for him—that all Sandor wants to do is to curl his body around her and to know that she’s real, flesh and blood.

“The little bird’s not scared of me?” he asks the question that has been gnawing him ever since.

“Of course not. You saved my life,” she replies, taking her hand away from his face and it takes every will in his body not to follow her warmth like a flower turning away from the sun.

Sandor doesn’t acknowledge the deep throb in his chest at the prospect of her leaving King’s Landing at the crack of dawn—like a cattle off to the slaughterhouse. Abruptly, he takes her hands in his, sweaty and clammy, and falls to his knees. His one last chance. “Just tell me. Tell me to take you away. I can take you to Essos, away from this bloody game of thrones. Please, little bird. I’ll be your wings.”

She smiles; her eyes sad. Slowly and gently, she untangles her hands from his. “It’s my duty. I won’t run away from my duty, Clegane. I can be brave like you’ve always wanted me to,” she pauses, her eyes staring into the distance. “I may not be bold as Arya or heroic as Robb, but I can be brave.”

 

**x.**

 

The gaping ache in his chest cannot be dulled by liquor nor the hands of time; it’s something that he will take to his grave as he sees his little bird’s carriage grows and grows into nothing but a speck of dust in the horizon.

Sansa may have lost a wolf but in the end, she gains a loyal hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how'd you feel about it! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Up next, Willas!


	6. Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas wants it so badly to be true. He wants it so much it hurts. The longing in his heart pales in comparison to his leg. It won’t be so bad to dream, where he can walk again and his children fill the haunting empty corridors of his home with happiness and glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd
> 
> My heart breaks for Willas in this chapter.

** Willas II **

 

**i.**

 

Willas knows that it is a dream—too good to be true— when the sharp shooting pain in his bad leg wakes him. Willas bites his bottom lip until he tastes blood, perspiration gathering on his forehead, as he struggles to get up.

“Leymon!” he grunts.

He blindly searches for his cane that is usually leaning against the headboard but his hand accidentally knocks it to the floor. “Leymon!” he yells out much louder; the roof of his mouth is parched.

If it isn’t for his pride or the dignity he has left, he would have agreed to let the Maester amputate his leg, and rid him of the excruciating pain once and for all. So why can’t he? He’s breathing more rapidly. White spots dance in front of his eyes and Willas knows that he’s closed to passing out. “L-leymon…” he gasps, his hand making a last ditched effort to reach a glass pitcher, and with all of his remaining effort, flings it to the door.

The pitcher erupts in crystal showers and water splatters everywhere. Gasping for breath, Willas fights to keep himself from slipping into oblivion. If he succumbs to the pain, a week will pass before he regains conscious—the longest was a month.

The door bursts open. “My Lord! I’ll call for the Maester immediately!”

Perhaps, it won’t be bad to escape reality, a part of him murmurs. Willas remembers: it was filled with children’s laughter—his children—playing by the garden, and sometimes, he would chase them along the rose bushes.

Willas wants it so badly to be true. He wants it so much it hurts. The longing in his heart pales in comparison to his leg. It won’t be so bad to dream, where he can walk again and his children fill the haunting empty corridors of his home with happiness and glee.

 

**ii.**

 

Garlan comes to visit Willas when he hears the news, and sits by his bedside. “If it wasn’t for Leymon, we would have found you dead by morning,” says Garlan, staring at Willas’ inflamed leg.

Willas only grunts and turns his head away from his brother.

“You haven't been eating much. Mother and Father will give you an earful if they hear about this,” Garlan adds, shaking his head.  
They’re too busy conspiring to get the crown to care for their son, he thinks bitterly. “I highly doubt it,” he replies to his brother.

Garlan sighs, “I wanted to at least tell you when you are feeling better, but we have an important visitor.”

Willas straightens up. “Who is it?”

“Your future wife.”

 

**iii.**

 

The Lady Sansa that is standing near the balcony rails, overlooking the gardens, looks older, more worn-out, than the shy Lady Sansa he’d met from only a year ago. He staggers inside the room silently with his cane softly tapping on the wooden floor and takes his time observing the woman that will soon be his wife.

Yet far too young, he thinks sadly; his heart heavy.

Her fiery hair tumbles down her back in a sort of careless freedom that he is suddenly plagued with the urge to pick a strand between his finger and press it against his cheek to see if it’s as soft as it looks. He wonders if it will burn him in ways he can’t possibly imagine.

Lady Sansa turns her head and Willas quickly notices. Her bloodshot eyes, her tear-streaked cheeks, her sadness. His body reacts before his mind. He makes his presence known by limping to her side.    
“It’s too cold to be out here,” he says, gently draping a shawl on her bare shoulders. “Come inside, Lady Sansa.”

“You’re too kind, Lord Willas.” she murmurs, taking his hand and letting him guide her back to the room.

He doesn’t mention neither the reason of her sudden arrival to Highgarden nor the failed attempt on her life in King’s Landing. Willas still feels extremely discomforted at the prospect of someone out there with the agenda to have her killed. _What can they possibly gain from her death?_

He doesn’t want to admit it. Sometimes, in the darkest hours when candles flicker low and he’s left staring at the ceiling, he wonders if the assassin have succeeded, would he have been freed from his matrimonial duty?

 

**ix.**

 

One particular afternoon when the sun is partly concealed by clouds and the breeze cools the humid summer air, Willas’ ears pick up a distant yet distinguishable humming. Without thinking, his feet slowly follows the the wind carrying the melodic sound like a sailor following a siren’s song.

It’s her. Undeniably her.

Lady Sansa is sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest on the base of an old orchard tree. Pink blossoms delicately decorate the top of her head forming a crown of flowers, befitting her suitably.

Red hot shame crawls to Willas’ cheeks when he realizes that somehow he’s intruding a private moment. It also doesn’t help that he’s hiding behind a hedge. Yet he can’t help himself from pressing his ear closer and closer to the hedge to listen to her voice.

Maybe, just maybe he’ll asks her to sing for him one day.

 

**x.**

 

Margaery’s letter reaches him after breaking fast with Lady Sansa. Finally alone in his solar, he breaks the seal. His eyes swiftly skims through the words, dread gradually filling him.

Her letter is abrupt and short, juxtaposed from her long, flowery descriptions of her life in King’s Landing. _Poison wine, Father’s sick, Your Grace’s wounded, Ned Stark taken captive…_

After reading the letter twice, Willas burns it until all that remains is ash.

He grits his teeth and massages his temples. _I have warned them over and over again. Nothing good will come to playing the wicked game. Nothing but death!_

 

**xi.**

 

For the last several days, Willas battles with himself especially whenever he sees Lady Sansa. For the last couple nights after finding a common love in literature, Lady Sansa had opened up to him, sharing her childhood stories of her travels in the North; of her family, of her half-brother, and of a particular Kingsguard who saved her.

He cherishes those nights and realizes that he has been quite taken with her company (once after he painstakingly draws her out of her shell). He can almost forget the many lonely nights in the library, surrounded by knowledge yet no one to share them with.

And all of his progress— _their progress_ — will be shattered if she discovers the conditions of her family in King’s Landing: captive father and brother, missing sister.

Not to mention the role his family played in the Stark’s demise.

 

**xii.**

 

_Marry her at once!_

Grandmother’s message keeps him tossing and turning in his bed.

Willas throws his blanket with a frustrated groan. He refuses to be his family’s puppet, pulling his strings whenever they see fit. He will marry her once she's ready! 

_If you want to protect her, marry her at once!_

He grabs a nearby pillow and flings it across the table, knocking papers and ink to the ground.

The next morning, when Lady Sansa warily sees the dark shadows underneath his eyes and asks if he hadn’t slept pleasantly last night, Willas plainly answers that the pain in his leg is to blamed.

 

**xiii.**

 

Willas discovers, much to his disappointment, that Lady Sansa likes to dance, and he will give about anything to sweep her off her feet like Florian to her Jonquil. The idea of not able to dance hasn’t really bothered him until lately…

Today is the festival to celebrate the Reach’s successful harvest. Festive music fills every corner of Highgarden and elated servants frolic around, talking and laughing. “All thanks to the Tyrells!” are a few shouts here and there.

He’s walking to his solar to have few quiet moments when his ears perk up at the unmistakable giggle. Perhaps, it’s then that he curses Oberyn to the deepest hell more than ever when he sees her dancing with none other than Leymon. Willas never truly notices the pink blush dusting on her cheeks or the brightness of her blue eyes underneath the soft yellow light until that very moment.

So, he watches silently and imagines it’s him twirling her around until she’s out breath. It's him effortlessly scooping her up in the air for everyone to see. Willas blinks and brings his hand to his wet cheek.

 

**ix.**

 

When the moon is full and the distant howls of wild wolves fill the night, it is Lady Sansa who comes running into his room when he’s calling for Leymon. He tries to bat her hand away and with his strength waning every second, he can’t tell her go away, to call for Leymon instead.

“Willas, _please!”_ she grabs hold of his hand and he catches a glimpse of determination shining in her eyes. “ _Please,_ let me help!”

_I don’t want you to see me this way: pathetic and helpless._

It’s her quiet voice dulling the pain where the milk of poppy has failed while Leymon and the Maester drain the accumulated fluid in his leg. It’s her soft hands wiping away his sweat while he tries not to scream in agony. It’s her lovely face he last sees when sleep and exhaustion finally claim him.

 

**x.**

 

The unexpected arrival of Jon Snow puts an immediate stop to Willas’ dream.

Willas have half a mind to throw Jon Snow into jail and keep him there indefinitely.  _No one will know. Certainly not Sansa._

Who is it that he’s kidding? Willas you Fool, he thinks. Do you honestly think that Sansa will not find out?

“So, you traveled all the way here from Harrenhal to speak to your sister when a letter would have sufficed?” Willas asks, knowing that his tone is cruel and uncharacteristically of him.

Jon Snow’s eyes flash with spoken zeal. “I want to see her, my lord. I have some things that I need to tell her in which a letter cannot.”

As hard as Willas may try to harden his heart for the inevitable, he doesn’t have it in him to deny Sansa her half-brother, whom she expresses with affection in her voice. So, there he stands, watching Jon Snow embraces Sansa in such intimate manner in which he, her future husband, even fails to do.

It is then that Willas fully realizes the unease in his heart: fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, someone caught the feels. 
> 
> As always, please let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Jon Snow is next!
> 
> P.S: Happy Holidays!


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